


In The Shade Of The Apple Tree

by staymagical



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 1800s England, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Propriety and Decorum bullshit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25080922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staymagical/pseuds/staymagical
Summary: WIP, NOT ABANDONED1830s England:Nearing poverty, Keith has little to his name and even fewer prospects change his lot in life. He has a knack for writing and putting eloquent words to paper and wants to make something of himself so when Shiro recruits him to assist on his political campaign, he knows it just might give him the opportunity to be something.As the son of a prominent politician, Lance has always want for naught, had everything and yet not what he truly wanted; freedom. With his father's reputation and family name to uphold, he's lived life on a tight leash but pushed the boundaries every moment he can. He's used to a life of status, of parties and frivolous fancies and does not want to jeopardize that and yet, he longs for something more. Something different.They're from two very different worlds, the norms of society deeming their paths should never cross. And yet, fate can be fickle sometimes.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, look who's in another historical kick. Oh, yeah it's me, always. 
> 
> I've been meaning to post this but held off because I wanted to write more chapters before posting while I still had interest but yeah now its Julance and I felt like I needed to post something since it has been a while. Though this first chapter has no Lance whatsoever so yeah. But the story will alternate between POVs so Lance will be next and will feature prominently.
> 
> No, I have not forgotten about the other stories I need to finish and I will eventually. When the drive returns. For now, have this new historical piece.
> 
> Enjoy!

For someone who has made a career out of putting pen to paper, there are quite a few words that set Keith on edge. The word ‘ball’ or ‘party’ is most decidedly his least favorite in the English language. They sit right up there alongside ‘introduce’, ‘courting’, ‘socialize’ and most certainly ‘marriage’, all of which promise a painful and awkward scrutiny into Keith’s perceived status in society followed by a long conversation into his steadfast loyalty to remain a solitary gentleman and usually ends with him unconsciously committing some form of impropriety.

A fair few times, it was not at all unconscious. Especially when pertaining to Lady Gisabelle’s untoward advances. But even Shiro agrees it is quite necessary when it comes to the lady in question and since her goal is nothing beyond the sport of riling men up to watch them sputter and trip over themselves, there’s little harm to it. Especially since her favor alone could help spur Shiro’s campaign to victory. Doesn’t make their visits to her expansive estate any less painful for Keith.

Avoiding social gatherings is easier said than done.

So when Shiro walks into the drawing room with a guilty tug to his lips behind a thinly veiled neutral expression and brow so perfectly even upon his face, Keith knows whatever comes out of his mouth will not be in his favor. 

He is thusly proven correct when Shiro poorly tries to busy himself with some mundane useless task like running a finger over the spines of books he very well knows by heart now before giving up the ruse with a sigh and turning to face Keith at last. 

“We’ve been invited to a ball at Mr. Kingston’s estate.”

Keith’s stomach clenches and he reluctantly tears his eyes away from the letter he’d been penning. Or more accurately, attempting to pen. The usual flow of unending eloquent words that Shiro admires so much and that dragged him from a recluse life and into a respectable place in Shiro’s political campaign have somehow made themselves scarce today and it’s already left Keith on edge.

Shiro’s announcement does not help in the matter, not one bit.

“Shiro—”

But he’s cut off as Shiro steps forward, earnest and unwavering with his hands held up in a placating gesture, “It will only be for an hour—”  _ lie _ — “two at most—”  _ another lie _ . These parties last well into the night and they both know first hand they won’t be leaving until the first of the respectable men begins to depart. It is the burden of being in politics and having your very campaign rely on your ability to socialize and be sociable with those who have a hand in making or breaking your career. 

Which begs the question of why in god’s name Shiro is always under the impression Keith should make any appearance in public when he’s much better suited here behind closed doors with pen and paper. His social skills are far from exemplary and that’s putting it delicately.

Though it must have a bit to do with the practice-makes-perfect notion Shiro keeps repeating like a mantra.

“And it is quite evident you are plenty capable of entertaining yourself at such events,” Keith responds, tone even and calm. With a flick of the inkwell cap, he abandons the charade of writing and sets his pen aside. He glances up at Shiro, chin tilted. “There is no need for me to accompany you.”

The sigh that escapes Shiro is long and winded and he leans on the bookshelf with the weight of it. “We’ve been through this before. You are my right-hand man on this campaign, Keith, it’s only fitting you make an appearance.”

Keith wrinkles his nose. He should regret agreeing to join Shiro’s campaign if only for all the events he’s forced to attend, but he finds he doesn't. The parties and social gatherings and airs he must put on are all part of the game, one he still hasn’t the faintest clue how to play, but it’s a small price to pay for the life Shiro has provided him. He had accepted his fate to live out his life sequestered in an old run-down tenant manor, to die with no prospects and naught to his name but the meager land and the stories he one day hoped to publish. But it was a lonely life, unfulfilling, and Keith wanted to make something of himself and no matter how much he may complain and moan about being shoved into society, he is grateful to Shiro for the opportunities he presented.

But in public, he’s more of a hindrance to Shiro than anything else, making a fool of them both in equal measure not to mention the oddity society already views him as. No need to make matters worse. 

“Alas, I’m afraid I must decline,” Keith bemoans, pushing away from the small writing desk and placing an exaggerated hand to his forehead. “I’ve suddenly become feverish and must retire early.”

The sound Shiro makes is nothing short of dry amusement. “It’s hardly past two.”

Keith ignores his comment in favor of attempting to slip past him and escape upstairs to his quarters before his flimsy excuse falls apart. “Do send Mr. Kingston my apologies.”

Of course, he doesn’t make it far before Shiro grabs his arm as he sidles past, putting an end to his daring escape and forcing him to face Shiro’s waning expression. “I’m not a fool.” His tone has lost some of its amusement, turning almost sour and exasperated in its wake. Not the direction Keith aims for, but he does have a knack for driving even the most well-mannered people a little mad. Shiro can attest to that more than anyone, though he tolerates it better than others as well. Evident by the quirk of Shiro’s eyebrow now. “You may very well enjoy yourself.”

Keith frowns, dropping his gaze and the pretense of illness. “I sincerely doubt it,” he huffs, remembering the last gathering they went to full of overly exaggerated chatter and batted eyes and being introduced to lady after lady until their faces all blurred together and he was beyond overwhelmed. He’s sure if he had let his guard down even the slightest, he’d have been accosted and roped into proposing before the night was over. A shiver runs down his spine. “We’re nothing more than prized pigs on market day.”

It’s the trotting about he can’t stand most of all. Casual conversation, he’s grown used to, though he still finds it tiresome. But the way some of these women preen and prod and poke, vying for the men’s attention and favor in the hopes that one may be agreeable and bend the knee to whisk them and their family away to a life of wealth and fortune on their estate is damn near unsavory. It’s expected of him to eventually find a good wife and settle but just the thought of marriage sends a shiver down his spine.

Besides, he doesn’t have wealth and fortune, he’s merely riding the coattails of Shiro’s status.

Shiro sighs and it’s so akin to that of his late father that the guilt becomes something almost tangible as it wraps an iron fist around Keith’s chest. “Why do you detest the attention so?” Shiro’s tone is soft and sincere with a gaze to match, his hand moving from Keith’s arm to his shoulder and he gives it a comforting squeeze. “Surely brother you must grow weary of traversing this life alone and yearn for some companionship.”

Keith shrugs, attempting to push aside the concern with a quirk of his lips and teasing tone. “I have you, don’t I?”

But Shiro is unwavering. “You know perfectly well that is not what I am referring to.”

Keith’s mood takes a plummet. He gets enough grief from the rest of polite society not to mention the rumors whispered behind delicate hands and pulled curtains. He’s not a fool. Marriage is the quickest way to elevate oneself but to marry a man below one’s status is also the quickest way to begin a scandal. And in the company they keep nowadays, Keith is a scandal waiting to happen.

It only serves to drive him further away from marriage altogether. 

Keith brushes the hand now weighing on his shoulder like the pressure of his words. “Leave it be, Shiro. I have no inclination to marry, not now, not ever if I can help it.”

Thankfully, Shiro seems to detect Keith’s souring mood and decides not to press the matter further. Instead, he chuckles, expression lighting into a mischievous grin that has Keith’s stomach dropping for different reasons. “Well then since I seem to be the one burdened with tolerating your gloomy demeanor for the rest of my existence, the least you can do is accompany me to the ball and make an appearance.”

Sometimes, Keith despises Shiro’s ability to turn a point in his favor. 

Keith groans, leveling Shiro with a glare before pushing past him. “You are a cruel friend, you know?” he says but makes no move to decline his request. He’ll let Shiro do the talking and keep to the fringes as much as possible. Perhaps, as Shiro said, he may enjoy himself after all.

He’s not that naive but hope can be a fickle thing when it needs to be.

“I do indeed,” Shiro calls after him, a smile in his voice that coaxes a reluctant one out of Keith as well. “Now ready yourself. We leave before sundown.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now I present to you, Lance accompanied by his older sister Veronica because their relationship is glorious and shes a delight, always.

The hall is alive with boisterous chatter that swells and dies on the back of the lively tune streaming from the band at the head. Lords, ladies, and members of high society from across the countryside flit about the marble floor, donned in their finest silks, trimmed in lace and ribbon, shoulders on display, waistcoats cut and buttoned high over broad chests. A handful have paired off, swirling around the open dance floor, voluminous skirts sweeping across the toes of the men that lead, stepping in time with the strings.

Lance snags a glass off the tray of a passing server filled with what he assumes is some sort of wine and smelling vaguely fruity. He fingers the delicate stem of the glass and leans back against the shadowed door frame at the fringes of the room. It’s unbecoming in polite society but at this moment, the merits wane as the evening drones on. 

No matter, Veronica cares less about propriety than he does so he’s in good company.

“This party is such a bore,” he groans, taking a sip from the glass for lack of something better to do. The tart nearly bitter taste hits his tongue and he scrunches his nose around the dancing bubbles tickling his sinuses. Godawful stuff, whatever it may be. But it’s alcoholic to some degree and Lance is not foolish enough to suffer through this party without being somewhat inebriated so he takes another longer draw.

Beside him, Veronica snorts, her gaze following the couples twirling around the dance floor with something akin to amusement. “What, not enough ladies fawning over you?” she asks.

Lance groans. “Don’t even start. It’s the same sort as usual and they are as snooty as always. All the half-decent prospects left with the summer.” 

“And on the arms of new husbands.” Veronica glances at him, amusement unwavering with brows raised. 

Lance tosses back the last of his drink, only mildly surprised he had downed the entirety of it in such little time. No matter, there’s plenty more where that came from. Just as quickly, he trades out the empty glass for a fresh from another server and smirks with all the smugness he is awarded at his sister’s eye roll. But she too takes a glass of her own.

The music ends on a high note, cheery and playful and those gathered in the room turn and clap their approval. Lance gives a half-hearted light clap, just once, surveying the room as the chatter picks back up and the band prepares another tune. “Much to father’s displeasure,” he chuckles, around his glass. “I’m not convinced he won’t bribe me a wife by year’s end.”

Veronica scoffs. “You just aren’t trying hard enough.”

“I try plenty.” He doesn’t, they both know that but he’s not about to admit it aloud, least of all here. Lance tilts his chin. “None reach my meager standards.”

A sly smile worms its way across Veronica’s lips and Lance only has a second to prepare himself for her retort.

“Oh? And what might those standards be?” Veronica leans in, voice lowered so as to be for his ears only, light and teasing in nature. “Must have a cock?” she whispers.

Every day of his life, Lance will forever pay for telling Veronica his secret desires in their youth, whispered under the cover of the bed linens as the rest of the estate lay asleep. She will not betray him, of that he is certain but her penchant for using this information to tease and rile has become commonplace.

It isn’t untrue though, even after all these years, but he won’t entertain such foolish notions of approval of those sinful thoughts from society or, least of all, their father. To no fault of his own, reputations to uphold and all that nonsense. Wouldn’t do to have his only son running about deflowering every handsome agreeable person that crossed his path no matter how much he may wish to. 

“A personality, dear sister,” Lance responds, ignoring her last comment with a wave of his hand. A pair of ladies glide past, twittering on about the men in attendance and the state of young Miss Katherine’s dress and Lance gestures toward them once they pass. “Ambitions beyond sewing and gossip and perching like a pretty statue in the gardens.” 

Veronica turns to face Lance, frowning. “Is that what you think I do?” Though her brow is pinched, there’s a smirk pulling at her lips and her voice is light and tingles with amusement.

“Not at all.” Lance cocks an eyebrow at his sister and smirks. “You destroy the garden.”

Veronica thrusts a finger at him, the wine nearly sloshing out of her glass with the sharp gesture. “That was not my fault. You said it yourself, that rock wall was unstable.”

“The gardener would beg to differ. ” 

“The gardener adores me. Unlike some, I don’t filch the strawberries before they’re even ripe.” Her chin tilts, smug, an expression that can hardly be trifled with seeing as her words and wit are just as strong as her bite if such an occasion should arise. Lance pities the poor man who tries to tame her with marriage. She’ll run him ragged and delight in it every step of the way.

And he will as well.

Lance huffs. “I was five and brimming with childish impatience.” He takes another long drink from his glass. Apparently, the wine gets better the longer he suffers its taste, which is not inherently a good thing. One would think with such a lavish estate, Mr. Kingston would splurge on a better quality vice than this.

“Still are,” Veronica mumbles into her own glass and then nearly loses her grip on it altogether as Lance swats her.

A flash of green across the room catches Lance’s eye and he looks up to see Miss Katherine Holt dashing through the crowds, ribbon and lace askew, sporting a wicked grin and a whole bottle of wine in her hands with a server hot on her heels. Lance chuckles, raising his glass to her as she meets his eye. Her grin only widens and she crows in the most unladylike fashion, startling a group chatting nearby before disappearing through the opposite doorway. 

It’s then that Lance takes note of the familiar figure across the room, the man having turned at the commotion Miss Katie had caused.

“My word is that Takashi Shirogane?” he blurts, grabbing Veronica’s arm to garner her attention. She follows his gaze with a hum. “I was not aware of his return. Has he finished with that posh school already?”

It has been years since they last saw the man, his rather large estate only boarding guests and various friends, if that, and never it’s rightful owner. He’d gone off to school after his parents’ passed, but Lance had been half-convinced that would be the end of it and he’d go off and conquer the world and they’d never see him again. They hadn’t been friends before, just mere acquaintances growing up, but he still admires the man so. He is his own man, not tethered to the wishes of others, making a name for himself by his own merits as he continues to uphold his family’s as well. 

Something Lance cannot say for himself. Safe to say he is quite envious. Admirable envy.

“You haven’t heard?” Veronica says, patting his hand on her arm in a mockery of childish soothing. “He’s begun a campaign for parliament. Should be giving father a run for it.”

“Intriguing.” But Lance’s gaze has shifted from Shiro’s broad form to the slighter lean shadow beside him. Dark and reserved, the young man can’t be much older than Lance himself, if at all, posture poised but tense, mouth set, and a thick brow that seems to cater to a frown. His midnight hair is unruly and reaches his shoulder, toeing the line of fashion and dated like a tightrope walker hell-bent on defying the rules of gravity. 

Intriguing indeed. Perhaps there's hope for this party after all.

A hand threads through his arm to settle in the crook of his elbow and he looks over to find Veronica watching him, a knowing twinkle in her eye. “Come, we must go say hello.”

For once, Lance offers no retort, no denial of where his gaze had wandered and just smiles in return, a thrill of excitement beating beneath his breast. 

“Indeed, we must.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Instagram for more Klance and VLD drabbles and short fics: [staymagwrites](https://www.instagram.com/staymagwrites/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow okay, sorry for the long wait. I rewrote this damn chapter three times before settling on a decent conversation for our boys. It was a struggle but it's done now and I'm mildly happy with it.
> 
> Also yes, as usual with my historical AUs, this story is period-accurate as far as society's views go. Just a reminder.
> 
> Enjoy!

Keith is not enjoying himself.

As to be expected, of course, but it’s nice to know that he was correct in the end. He just wishes they could escape this dreadful party so he can thoroughly rub it in Shiro’s face.

He has lost count of the number of people he’s been introduced to, the bows, the curtsies, the questions and comments, and dance requests, and the never-ending slew of names and faces he has no hope of ever remembering. And no desire to either. Though, if he is to make another appearance in polite society—which he suspects he will because Shiro has a penchant for cruelty when it pertains to Keith, he’s sure of it—he must or suffer the shame and embarrassment should he not be able to recall names when meeting any of these people again.

All in all, it’s extremely tiresome and he’s waning.

Not even the wine is capable of diluting the party into something more palatable. It just leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. God, what is this awful stuff? He debates the merits of simply abandoning the sodding thing on the nearest end table but ultimately decides against it. It’s his one defense against joining conversations so he’ll hold onto the glass stem for dear life.

As it stands, Shiro is engaged in the most riveting conversation with Mr. Kingston and his wife, their host fawning over the extravagant chandelier suspended above their heads, bathing the hall in golden light from hundreds of hand-lit candles. Shiro, ever the agreeable man, smiles, and comments as needed only glancing at Keith for assistance twice. Glances that Keith pretends not to notice, coincidentally finding the dance floor uproariously fascinating at those moments. 

It’s a petty sort of revenge but Keith never claimed to be above such things.

The music eases out of its crescendo, the steady beat of footsteps slowing in time with the tune as the laughter and cheer filling the hall remains at a high. A commotion to the left catches Keith’s attention and he glances over just in time to see a group of ladies hurriedly step out of the way with gasps of affronts as a short swirl of green skirts dash through their midst with glee. A young girl, no more than fifteen and barely out in society, ginger hair in bouncing ringlets around her wicked grin and bespeckled eyes. 

Keith watches, intrigued by this little gremlin of a lady as she fearlessly runs through the crowd of high society members without a care in the world to her appearance or the scene she’s making. All she cares for is the filched bottle in her hand and escaping the angered servant pushing his way after her. She glances back as she runs past Keith, her grin widening with a twinkle and lets out a howl of victory before disappearing through the doorway, the servant not but a few seconds behind her, red in the face.

The whole affair nearly has Keith rethinking his previous disdain for this party. Clearly, there is some decent entertainment after all.

“My word,” Mrs. Kingston exclaims, drawing Keith’s attention back to the couple and their now sour expressions as the interruption fades into renewed jubilant chatter around them. Mrs. Kingston herself seems to have taken personal offense to the girl’s antics, her lips pursed and delicate brow severely pinched with a hand over her heart. Overly dramatic in Keith’s opinion. “That child is unfit for polite society. Odious little thing, she is.”

Mr. Kingston nods in agreement. “Quite,” he mutters, his gaze still locked firmly on the doorway through which the girl disappeared. Then he turns to Shiro and Keith with a brief respectable tilt of his head to each of them. “If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Shirogane, Mr. Kogane.”

Shiro and Keith nod politely and the couple leaves without another word.

Keith stares after them for a moment, before raising an eyebrow at Shiro. “Who was that?” he asks, voice lowered.

A hint of a smile teases at Shiro’s lips. “Miss Katherine Holt. From a highly respected family, brilliant and quite eccentric the whole of them, honestly, but those children do have a penchant for mischief.” Shiro chuckles, his eyes glossing over briefly with reminiscent fondness. “Matt and I used to get into all sorts of trouble in our youth.”

“You? Trouble?” Keith barks out a laugh. “You’re joking.”

Shiro tilts his glass in Keith’s direction, his gaze flitting toward the dance floor. “Not in the slightest.”

In all honesty, Keith shouldn’t be surprised. Shiro was a gentleman through and through but his more rambunctious side would make an appearance every once in a while. Like the late nights Keith had caught him pilfering extra sweetmeats from the cook’s kitchen, or the long horseback rides they’d take along the coast, Shiro shedding his prim and proper exterior for something more wild, free, something that grinned as they raced across the beach at top speeds, the wind biting at their skin, sand kicked up in their wake.

That was the Shiro he knew could make an impact in politics. 

The same one who could persuade even the most stubborn of friends to accompany him to a dreadful social gathering disguised as a ball.

Keith shakes his head fondly, taking a small sip from his glass before remembering that ghastly wine is all he has and wincing around the taste. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a swish of blue skirts approaching through the throngs of guests on the arm of a pair of long tailored legs and pristinely shined shoes.

“Mr. Shirogane.”

A pair stands before them, bowing in respect and greeting. They’re both long and lean with skin just a few delicate shades darker than most the gentry Keith has seen around these parts. Siblings if he were to garner a guess, judging by the similar slant of the nose and cut of the cheekbones. But where the woman is sharp in her action, almost regal with airs and a tilt of her chin, the man is looser, elegant in a laid-back fashion that can only be bred from a life of excess and rebellious disregard of decorum.

And his gaze, when Keith finally settles upon it, is focused on his own, drinking him in with piercing blue that he swears peers right into his very soul.

His stomach swoops, both intrigued and unnerved by the attention and he rests into his usual frown. The man is handsome, that much cannot be denied, long fingers holding the stem of his glass tenderly, his chestnut hair gently curling around his ears and framing his sharp angular features. But he’s the arrogant sort, Keith can already discern as much.

Shiro respectfully bows to the two newcomers, Keith following belatedly behind him. “Young Mr. McClain, Miss McClain,” Shiro greets them each in turn.

The woman—Miss McClain—smiles politely. “It’s been far too long since we’ve seen you around these parts, Mr. Shirogane. How do you fair?”

“Well enough, thank you.” Shiro’s posture relaxes ever so slightly. “It sets my heart at ease to return to my hometown. Not much has changed it seems, though you two have definitely grown into fine respectable members of society.”

Mr. McClain puts a hand to his chest in a mockery of offense and gasps at his sister. “Did you hear that, Roni? We’re considered respectable now. Where did we go wrong?”

Miss McClain rolls her eyes, her spine straightening as she tilts her chin. “Speak for yourself.” 

A rambunctious laugh bursts from the corner of the hall, loud enough to carry over the band’s latest tune and the steady drum of chatter. Keith glances in the direction of the interruption, more because he’s desperate for any sort of distraction than any actual curiosity. 

“And who is your friend?” He nearly startles at Mr. McClain’s voice and he looks over to find his gaze has shifted back to Keith with the same piercing attention, brow raised.

“My apologies,” Shiro gestures to Keith with a warm smile. “May I introduce Mr. Keith Kogane. A dear friend of mine who has graciously decided to move out here permanently in order to assist in my blossoming political career.” 

The two siblings nod their heads in greeting, Mr. McClain slower, eyes sweeping up his body with obvious scrutiny. Keith tries not to fidget under his gaze, nodding in greeting in return. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kogane,” Mr. McClain says, eyes meeting his once more, all smiles and polite gestures.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with his mannerisms, Keith deduces, watching him. He’s a gentleman albeit more on the lax side of things. But the way he holds himself, the subtle preening, the fine line he dances between polite and haughty set Keith on edge. He’s wary, he realizes, of this man’s judgment. 

Perhaps it’s the fine clothes, the silks and satins, the perfectly polished adornments, and well-cared for airs that don’t do him any favors in that regard either. Or perhaps it’s Keith’s own general distrust and cautious notion toward most high-class gentry—Shiro being the one exception. He’s heard the name McClain before, anyone spending even a minute in these parts, or in the country in general, knows of Lord McClain. Wealth beyond imagining and a penchant for flaunting it. No doubt his children are the same. 

Keith must be staring long past what propriety dictates because Shiro clears his throat and Mr. McClain raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing at his lips.

Miss McClain turns to Shiro once more, breaking Keith from his abhorrent staring—frowning—at Mr.MClain. “So the rumors are true,” she says. “You’re vying for a seat in parliament.”

Shiro nods, holding himself steady under the inquiry with utter decorum. “I am indeed running. Against your father, if I’m not mistaken.” 

“You are correct,” Miss McClain assures, chuckling as she raises her glass, a sparkle in her eye. “I’m sure you’ll give him a good fight.”

Mr. Mclain clinks his glass to hers. “Heaven knows he could use the opposition.”

They are an odd pair, these two siblings. Keith’s not wholly sure what to make of them. In all respects, they should be like every other high-class citizen, pompous, snobby, arrogant. But here they are, conversing and teasing each other in casual manners, and Shiro as well who, although wealthy in his own right, cannot hope to ever match their status. 

He’s intrigued by them, to say the least. Mr. McClain more so for reasons he cannot describe.

Shiro chuckles good-naturedly, raising his own glass. “The times are changing. I reckon I could do some good.”

Mr. McClain grins, all teeth and promised mischief. “I’m sure you’ll make a fine candidate. Your schmoozing could use a bit of work though.” Then he turns his attention back to Keith and his eyes seem to shimmer in the candlelight from the chandelier. “Is that where you come in, Mr. Kogane?”

Keith is wholly unprepared for the shift back to him, having just taken a small sip from the godawful wine for lack of anything better to do. It proves to be his undoing as he nearly chokes and sputters around his wine glass. 

Shiro, the godsend—or devil incarnate—takes Keith’s plight as his consent to answer for him. “Hardly,” he laughs and Keith shoots him a glare. “He can barely manage himself at this party.”

“To no fault of my own,” Keith wheezes when he finally manages to clear his airways only to properly drown in embarrassment. “It’s painfully dull.”

Keith sets his glass down on a passing servant’s tray just to be safe. Best not to tempt fate. 

To his surprise, Mr. McClain lets out a hearty laugh, the sound high and genuine that sends a tingle down Keith’s spine and his heart racing. “I’ll drink to that,” he says and raises his glass once more, giving silent cheers, before taking a sip. Keith finds himself oddly amused. “So whereabouts are you from, Mr. Kogane?”

“East of Balmera. “ He straightens under the scrutiny. “The Marmora estate.”

Mr. McClain nods absentmindedly. “Oh yes, gorgeous out there, I’m told. Must have been quite a large estate you had. Lots of farms and tenants.”

“Oh, um yes, there are a fair few.” Keith’s stomach twists with unease but he doesn’t bother to correct the man. It’s not worth the hassle and the attention it will garner is just the sort Keith desperately wishes to avoid.

So he leaves it at that.

The room bursts into applause as the band finishes another song, laughter and glee filtering through the noise to their little nook on the fringes of the hall. Keith watches dance partners bow and curtsey to one another, some parting ways as others seem to gravitate toward the center again awaiting the next dance. Keith had never seen the appeal in dancing, twirling through an intricate set of rules, on display in front of many a judgemental eye. Where was the appeal in that?

His inability to understand the steps and dances may also play some small part in his dislike for the custom. But that is beside the point. 

If he is to garner a guess, he’d say that Mr. McClain is the sort to agree to dance with any lady who should so wish one. And he’d enjoy every step of the attention. 

“Mr. Shirogane,” Miss McClain interrupts Keith’s musing, her tone oddly dulcet, like she’s sharing a secret no one else is privy to, “if I may be so bold, would you care to dance?”

Panic lances through Keith’s chest as Shiro glances over and catches his eye. And Keith knows he’s about to be abandoned. 

It’s revenge for earlier. That bastard.

Shiro smiles and gives her a respectful nod, setting his glass down on a side table next to Keith’s. “It would be my pleasure, Miss McClain.”

She returns his smile with one of her own and passes her nearly-empty glass to her brother, giving him a pointed look that Keith has no hope of understanding. For his part, Mr. McClain just nods in return, unperturbed as she exchanges his arm for Shiro’s, her hand resting comfortably in the crook of his elbow.

“Behave yourself, Roni,” Mr. McClain calls after her with a grin. He pours the remaining contents of her glass into his and sets the empty one on a passing tray. Keith stares not sure whether to be disgusted or delighted by this blatant disregard for proper gentility.

Miss McClain doesn’t bother humoring him with a response, disappearing into the thongs of people gathering for the new dance to begin.

The silence that falls between them is thick with awkward tension. Keith wants nothing more than to make an excuse and slither away to a darkened corner where he can ignore and be ignored until Shiro deems it an acceptable hour for them to depart. But he’s also loathed to relinquish his one companion—if he can even be called that when they met just minutes before. Mr. McClain is his only buffer now that Shiro has left him at the mercy of this forsaken ball so he’ll have to make do and pray Mr. McClain isn’t as ruthless as Shiro.

“I need some fresh air,” Mr. McClain says suddenly, downing the last of his drink and setting it on the side table next to Keith’s. He cocks his head at Keith and gestures toward the doorway. “Care to join me, Mr. Kogane.”

Keith hesitates, glancing over at the dancefloor as the music begins and Shiro and Miss McClain perform the first circle around each other. “But your sister? Don’t you need to chaperone?”

Mr. McClain chuckles and waves away the notion like it’s naught but a fantastical whim. “Oh heavens, no. She’s quite capable of handling herself. And Mr. Shirogane is well aware of the fact.”

Keith can hardly argue with him on that conjecture so with one last glance back at Shiro on the dancefloor and a second to swallow his budding apprehension, he nods and follows Mr. McClain out of the hall. 

“So they are well acquainted then?” Keith inquires as they weave leisurely through the partygoers strewn about the entrance hall. It seems the guests have taken it upon themselves to invade every nook and cranny of the Kingston manor, spilling into the library and sitting room branching off the main entrance hall.

“Not as much, no,” Mr. McClain states. He tilts his head, glancing back at Keith with those sharp blue eyes and there’s no mistaking the smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “They’re not courting if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Heat scorches Keith’s cheeks and he quickly shakes his head. “I—no, of course not.”

And he wasn’t, not entirely. Shiro would have told him if he was courting anyone. At least, he hopes he would have told him. They don’t carry many secrets between them, not anymore.

Conversations whittle down to mere muffled background noise as they leave the bulk of the party behind and step through large french doors out onto the gloriously empty loggia. The cool crisp night air is invigorating and Keith instantly sucks in a deep breath, letting it fill his lungs, clear his head, and ease the tension he’d been carrying in his shoulders all evening. The loggia runs the length of the manor house, lit by elegant lanterns hanging from each of the stone columns that swoop down to meet low railings. An archway directly across the large doors gives way to several steps leading down into the beginnings of a terraced lawn, the rest of the grounds swallowed up by the night. 

Mr. McClain leads them over to the stone railing and, with all the casual flair of a common peddler, leans against it to gaze out onto the grounds. Keith warily joins him, curious by the ease and comfort with which this man carries himself. They have known each other no more than a few minutes and already Mr.McClain seems to be at perfect ease in Keith’s presence as if they were the oldest of friends.

“Do you enjoy politics, Mr. Kogane?” He asks suddenly, gazing out at the expansive darkness beyond the terrace. 

Keith startles but quickly masks it by stepping up alongside Mr. McClain and resting a hand on the railing. “Not as such, no. That’s more Shiro’s—excuse me—Mr. Shirogane’s aptitude than mine.”

Mr. McClain hums thoughtfully. Then he turns to level Keith with a keen knowing eye. “You’re a writer then.” 

There’s a smirk on his lips and the warm light from the lantern above casts him in an ethereal glow, throwing his features into sharp relief. But his eyes glint, speckled with gold from the reflection. 

Keith’s heart quickens. “How do you—”

“Mr. Shirogane never had much skill with written words so I presume that’s your forte,” Mr. McClain states with a raise of his brow. He turns toward Keith, leaning back against the pillar, his previous study of the estate grounds now focused solely on Keith. His brow climbs higher.

“Meager at best,” Keith says, tilting his head to cast his gaze out over the terrace. But he can feel Mr. McClain watching him, his study thorough and unwavering, unimpeded by trivial things such as propriety or manners.

“More than meager if Mr. Shirogane recruited you. Must have a real talent for it.”

In the distance, the crickets play an orchestra, filling the night with soothing chirps to mingle with the gentle din from the ongoing party. It’s peaceful, serene even with Mr. McClain’s heady presence and his inquiries that would in any other circumstance leave Keith feeling exposed and dangerously on edge. Like a beast in a cage, trapped and on display. 

But for some absurd reason, out here in the night with the estate stretching on into the dark night and the crickets for company, Keith doesn’t feel so trapped. Perhaps it’s the open air, promising an escape should he desire one. Or perhaps it’s the company he keeps. 

There’s something about Mr. McClain. He’s an unusual sort, but not in the negative sense, more a puzzle Keith wants to solve.

“I would say it’s more nepotism that earned me that position,” Keith answers honestly. Nepotism or it may have been pity, seeing as how Keith was living. Shiro has always been the honorable sort.

In Keith’s periphery, Mr. McClain shakes his head. “Do you always think so little of yourself?”

It takes an effort not to show the surprise he feels at being questioned with such boldness, and by a stranger to boot. Keith stares down at the stone railing, picking at a loose chip and watching it fall to be lost in the terrace lawn below. “Only when it’s true.”

“My my,” Mr. McClain tsks, and Keith stiffens with the clicks of his tongue, “is there anything you care to brag about?”

For reasons he cannot define, that irks Keith. He frowns, turning toward Mr. McClain to take up the subtle challenge. “I’m a decent rider. Can match Mr. Shirogane on my best day.”

“Ah, that’s better. A strong feat indeed.” Mr. McClain’s smile spreads until he looks well and pleased with himself for coaxing a rise out of Keith. And that only serves to irk Keith even more. “You must be able to speak of your accomplishments, Mr. Kogane if you’re to have any hope of winning a place amongst this sort.” He gestures toward the large windows and the ball of snobbish gentry inside.

“And what if I don’t?” Keith fires back, his frown deepening. “Want to, that is.”

Mr. McClain seems to sink back into the pillar, relaxed with an easy grace that defies his position. He waves a hand through the air in a nonchalant fashion. “Then you may just find this place as dreary and boring as politics.”

“Is that your perspective?”

“One of them,” Mr. McClain says with a raise of his brow. And he tilts his head, gaze glinting in the lantern light as he studies Keith once more. “I have others.” His cheeky smile then melts into something soft and pliant when he meets Keith’s eyes.

Something bubbles up in the pit of Keith’s stomach, a feeling not unlike nausea but lighter, fluttering. It’s foreign and for a moment, he wonders if perhaps that wine had been rancid after all and this is the beginning of what may result in a long night clutching the chamber pot. But Mr. McClain doesn’t seem affected at all by the wine he drank. In fact, his cheeks are a healthy shade of pink, and despite lounging against the pillar, he seems well enough albeit a bit inebriated, still smiling at Keith.

The feeling increases and Keith doesn’t like it.

Some of his annoyance must be evident on his face because Mr. McClain chuckles, crossing his arms across his chest. “You don’t attend many balls, do you Mr. Kogane?” 

Keith fights the urge to mirror him. “Can’t say that I do.”

“I wonder,” Mr. McClain hums, pushing off the pillar to stand tall before Keith, “is it because you don’t enjoy dancing or because you haven't perfected the necessary skills for navigating such large social gatherings.” Keith’s frown deepens and Mr. McClain’s smile morphs into a smirk just shy of sharp. “Ah, or both perhaps. You deprive many a fine lady of the opportunity to win your heart by being out here with me, Mr. Kogane.”

The light fluttering nausea from before is solid now, a stone sitting in his stomach, threatening to worm its way up his throat. He glares at Mr. McClain, decorum be damned. “I am not here to dance or socialize or find a suitable wife, Mr. McClain. I am here to support Mr. Shirogane, nothing more.”

“And yet, I saw the way you looked at my sister.” It’s nausea now, Keith is wholly sure, lodging itself in his throat, threatening to make an indecent appearance. Mr. McClain presses on, unaware. “I assure you she is most agreeable and would gladly accept a dance from you. You two would make a very handsome couple. Unless you have—”

“Do you usually give your opinion so decidedly?” Keith snaps, cutting Mr. McClain’s unsavory words off at the head. And to think, he had been so intrigued by this man, so fascinated by him only minutes ago. Only for reality to rear its ugly head and shove another prospective wife and marriage down his throat.

He pities Miss McClain and if he had the least bit of interest, perhaps they may have gotten along well enough. If nothing else, they would have something in common to relate to.

For his part, Mr. McClain only looks moderately startled by Keith’s interruption before his eyes alight with amusement. “Well, yes. I have a habit of being correct. I don’t care to ruin the streak now.”

“And yet, presumably, that would be precisely why you should keep opinions to yourself. You never know when you might ruin your perfect streak by making rash assumptions.” Keith straightens, leveling Mr. McClain with one last piercing glare before he bows his head. “Goodnight Mr. McClain.”

Then he turns and strolls back through the french doors, allowing himself to be swept away by the overwhelming noise of a ball he should have never attended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Instagram for more Klance and VLD drabbles and short fics: [staymagwrites](https://www.instagram.com/staymagwrites/)


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